


Surviving The Apocalypse

by Macs_Baby_Girl



Category: The Walking Dead
Genre: F/M, Gen, NSFW, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-23
Updated: 2014-10-23
Packaged: 2018-02-22 07:06:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2499017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macs_Baby_Girl/pseuds/Macs_Baby_Girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Discontinued work. Merle/OC/Daryl. I suck at summaries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Surviving The Apocalypse

Title: Surviving The Apocalypse  
Category: TV Shows » Walking Dead  
Author: Missus MacManus  
Language: English, Rating: Rated: M  
Genre: Horror/Romance  
Published: 09-25-14, Updated: 09-25-14  
Chapters: 1, Words: 5,120  
Chapter 1: Part One: ORIGINS  
Surviving The Apocalypse PART 1

Contains 2 OCs. Mainly, Grace. Will be mentions of another minor OC. Roughly attempts to follow canon. Wrote this a while back, my first baby steps back into fanfic since 2011. Love it or leave.

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Daryl

Her name was Grace. She had been twenty-three years, four months and thirteen days old when he last saw her. To see her standing there now, as though nothing had changed when in reality, everything had changed, was something of a shock. Even so, he outstretched a hand to her.

"You're safe now."

A lie, one meant for comfort. Even so, she approached, and he felt as though he had purpose once more.

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One Year Prior

"Y'all home?" the cheerful Southern accent drifted through the screen door. Daryl was nursing his third cup – mug – of scotch, and Merle appeared to be so out of it on whatever the fuck he'd been taking that he didn't look as though he'd be getting up anytime soon.

The owner of the voice, clearly understanding that nobody was going to come to the door, pushed the screen open using her shoulder, and entered the dingy living room, lugging a heavy-looking bag behind her.

The television was on, South Park turned down at a low volume. The floor was littered with cigarette butts, empty beer cans, pizza boxes, dirty dishes, and, next to where Merle was sleeping, a bong.

The newcomer was a girl with bleach blonde hair and green eyes. She wore ripped jeans, mud-spattered Doc Martens, and a tank top, exposing her arms, one of which was entirely covered in tattoos. Birds, hearts, anchors, and the odd paw print made up the base of the artwork. There was, on closer inspection, a barcode on her wrist. If anyone bothered to scan it, she would have scanned up as a copy of Lolita, a joke she had found humorous at the time. Now? Not so much.

At first, she ignored Daryl, went straight to Merle, and gave the elder Dixon brother a slight nudge with her booted foot.

"Merle, y'asshole, wake up man," the girl – Grace – complained.

No reply.

Sighing and cussing, Grace knelt down to take Merle's pulse. It was there.

"He ain't dead," Daryl found himself saying, "just passed out."

Grace turned to him.

"I ain't heard you say more than five words since I started buyin' from yo' brother and lookin' after yo' sorry asses," she informed him as she headed into the kitchen, lugging her bag behind her. Daryl found himself following her.

"Whatcha got?" he asked.

Grace grinned and started putting away the groceries.

"Lotta bread, some meat, pickled pig feet, cola, some vegetables, burritos," she shrugged, and then tossed him a can of something, "Veritable white trash feast!"

"Beer!" He grinned, glancing at the can.

"Grace, you know what to bring," he found himself saying.

"Yeah well, can't see you boys starvin' now can I? Shouldn't be mixin' drinks either, y'idiot." Grace snagged a beer for herself and led the way back to the living room, setting herself down on the admittedly filthy couch. To be fair, Grace lived in a trailer, so she didn't seem to care about the mess.

"You here to buy dope?"

"Naw, here to check in on y'all."

"I dunno why yer so sweet on Merle," Daryl found himself saying suddenly.

Grace laughed.

"I ain't sweet on Merle. He's a damn good dealer, always has the good shit, but I ain't fuckin' him anytime soon."

Daryl almost wanted to punch himself.

"He told me y'all already did."

Grace laughed again; she was roughly thirteen years younger than him, but sometimes he felt she was older.

"Wishful thinkin' on his part." She turned her attention back to the screen, and then spoke again.

"Y'all been sittin' here watchin' South Park all day?"

"Yeah," he admitted, liking her soft Southern drawl and the way she looked at him when she spoke. Like he was important. The last person who had done that had been his Mom, and she was long dead, and it had been rare as rocking horse shit.

"Why don'cha do somethin' cool?"

"Like what?" it came out a bit more aggressively than he would have preferred.

"I dunno," her eyes gleamed, "steal Merle's bike. Go out on a joyride or som'in."

He smirked.

"Done that, last time my bike was fucked."

The smirk dropped from his face when he remembered his brother's reaction to that stunt.

Grace noticed.

"Hey," she said, "Y'ok?"

He nodded.

"This is boring." Grace declared, waving a hand at the television.

"Got any better ideas?" Daryl asked, feeling very much as though she was saying he was boring.

"Several." Grace pulled a slightly scruffy packet of cigarettes from the pocket of her jeans. Flipping the lid, she pulled one out and replaced the pack. With a slight smirk, she slipped the cigarette between his lips and lit it with a flick of the lighter she produced from another pocket.

"Like what?" he took a drag from the cigarette and watched her pull a little baggie out of the battered cigarette packet and carefully make a line on the table. He tried not to wince when she snorted the powder.

"What?" she tipped him a wink.

"Yer twenty-one. Y'shouldn't be usin' that shit." Daryl found himself saying. Grace laughed.

"Oh, honey, I've been doin' this shit since I was seventeen," she smiled, "still, I got me a job, so I ain't exactly trash yet."

They sat in silence for a moment, and then Grace turned to him.

"Wanna do it?"

"Wha'?"

"You wanna fuck?" Grace's eyes gleamed.

"You're high." Besides, he thought, I got plenty of whores if I wanted.

"Yep. I'm always high though."

"Nah." He shrugged, "I don't fuck."

"Liar." Grace muttered, then added, "Your loss."

She sprung up from the couch and disappeared into the kitchen.

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A Month Or So Later

Grace

It's the spring of my twenty-second year of life. Today marks the day I was born to shitty people in a shitty neighborhood. No candles. No cake. No gifts. Actually, that's not entirely true. I'd fucked Daryl last night, but after, he'd told me he'd fucked another girl not two hours before me. Asshole. Actually, that ain't fair; he's a damn good lookin' man, can't exactly blame him. Doesn't mean I ain't pissed though.

I'm lyin' on the couch, smokin' a cigarette, threadbare blanket coverin' my body, when Merle comes in, clearly high as a kite. Why the fuck am I not high? I consider taggin' along with him to try and score from one of the members of his motorcycle gang. Effort.

"Merle," I say finally, "got any shit?"

He glances over at me, ignores my question.

"Would'a thought ya'd still be in my lil' brother's bed, sweetheart," he grunts at me. To my credit, I don't blush.

"Why would I be?" I ask, putting the cigarette out in one of the many ashtrays.

"Heard y'all fuckin'," he smirks at me, "and dayumn, baby girl, you sound sweet, though I could prob'bly get better noises outta ya."

I flip him off.

"Y'all didn't hear us arguin' after 'cause he been fuckin' some other whore not two hours before me?" I ignore his comment and the subsequent twinge of lust it causes.

He laughs.

"Lil brother got game," he says.

"Fuck off, you're gross," I say irritably, "got any shit or what?"

He shrugs.

"Y'all are meant t'be my fuckin' dealer, and ya shit," I grumble, "plus it's my birthday."

He considers me for a moment.

"Why didn'cha say somethin'?" he asks, and then adds, "how old?"

"Twenty-two," I shrug.

He tosses me a tiny bag of pills from his back pocket.

"Y'owe me," he warns.

My shitty cell phone buzzes. A message from Daryl.

f, I key in and hit send.

I turn back to the elder Dixon brother.

"Waive the fee for this shit," I wave the baggie, "and I'll fuck you."

He laughs at me. I scowl.

"Take me for a fool, darlin'?" he asks, "I'm fuckin' gross, remember?"

"Whatever man," I say, standin' up real slow. I'm only wearing a tank top and panties, and they don't leave much to imagination.

"Y'all weren't kiddin'?" he says, openly eyeing me.

I say nothin', down two of the pills from the baggie; toss it aside, and strip off my tank top. I survey him. He ain't bad lookin'. He's seven or eight years older than Daryl, and a shit tonne older than me, and there's no denyin' his brother is prettier. But this ain't about looks.

"Y'all just gonna gawk at me, or?" I smirk.

"You really weren't fuckin' kiddin'," he grins.

I lead him down the hallway, tryin' to not be a total idiot, 'cause I'm trippin' real bad.

It's kinda a big relief to flop backwards onto his bed and breathe in the scent of his room, which, by the way, smells like booze and weed and other illicit substances. It's kinda delicious.

I don't even realize he's naked til I feel his body against mine, one hand dragging my panties down my thighs, the other touching me lightly. I'm somewhat surprised at how easy he slips two fingers inside me.

"Dirty fuckin' slut," Merle growls in my ear and I moan. Yeah, he ain't as cute as his brother, but damn is he more experienced.

His movements are rough, but he angles his fingers just right, turnin' me into a fuckin' harp, lyin' there at his mercy.

"I'm guessin' my lil brother didn't do this," he looks practically smug.

He's right. This is new, and I like it.

"Fuck me," the words fall from my lips and he laughs, a smug smirk forming on his lips.

"Mm baby," he parts my legs, "I like when you talk dirty."

I roll my hips up, feel the tip of him at my entrance, and then he's inside of me and for a few seconds I can't think anything except how good he feels, there's this white-hot pleasure searing through my veins and it makes itself known as profanities spew from my lips.

"Yer fuckin' tight," he growls in my ear, "How the fuck are you so tight?"

"Shut up," I manage to gasp, "And fuck me. Make me scream."

Merle Dixon is not a submissive man, in any form, but on this occasion he does as I ask. He grips my waist and pounds into me until I'm screaming.

"Oh god!" I cry, "Oh god, Merle, yes… oh, fuck, oh, fuck, yes… oh…"

Everything goes a little blank as we reach our peaks together.

A few moments pass, and then he rolls off me.

"I need coffee," I say eventually.

"Make me some, darlin'?" Merle says and I nod.

So I get up, put my panties back on, and snag one of Merle's shirts to wear. I sneak a glance at him on my way out. Despite years of drug abuse and age slowly creepin' up on him, his time in the military still shows. To be fair, it wasn't that long ago. I must've been maybe almost eighteen when he went off, and when he got back from bein' kicked out and jailed, I was almost twenty. Lucky for me I'd stocked up on shit before he left.

I shamelessly eye him again.

Yum.

I saunter out into the kitchen, enjoying the warm Georgia heat that seeps through the windows and onto my skin.

"Grace?" Daryl calls from the door; I spin to face him, "thought ya were workin'?"

I shake my head.

"Nah."

"Who's with Merle?"

"Nobody, last time I checked," I say innocently.

"Weird," Daryl rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, "I heard, uh, noises…"

I smirk.

"I'll try and be quiet next time," I say sweetly.

Understandin' creeps onto his face.

"Y'all were with Merle?" he practically splutters.

"Mm-hmm."

"Ya let him…"

"Fuck me?" I say, "Mm. Now that sure was somethin'."

I pour water into the coffee cup, and, in silence, I brush past Daryl and return to Merle.

"Y'bring coffee?" he growls at me as I close the bedroom door. He's sittin' up in bed, smokin' a pipe of… somethin'.

I pass him the cup. He takes a swig, and then passes it back. I can hear the stereo goin', reckon that when I go out there later, Daryl will be shitface drunk. I try not to think of that.

I expect Merle to kick me out, but he doesn't. Instead, I end up lyin' beside him, tracin' circles on his chest whilst we pass a cigarette back-and-forth between us. Whilst we lie there, I try to work out exactly how old he is. My best estimate is somewhere in his forties, 'cause Daryl is in his mid-thirties. Either way, I'm fairly comfortable, and I don't really wanna move. He has one arm around me. I curl up under the blanket.

"Sleep, babe, ya gonna need strength later," he says – drawls – at me. I do, sinking into a comfortable stupor.

When I wake, he's not there, but he has bothered to cover me in blankets. I ain't meant to be feelin' all fuzzy an' shit… I scold myself, this ain't happenin' again.

I manage to keep that resolve until around seven pm that evenin'. I'm in the kitchen, cuttin' up potatoes for tea, when he gets home, motorcycle roarin' up the driveway. My resolve wavers a little when he comes up behind me, stinkin' of booze and sweat and gasoline, and starts kissin' my neck, real slow.

"Merle," I start, go to swat at him. He catches my hand, lifts me up onto one of the clean surfaces of countertop.

"What're you-?" he cuts my question off with a kiss.

It's the first time he's kissed me, and it's rough and sensual and it sets my entire being on fire. And as we both knew, I don't even try to fight him. I moan into his mouth, hands going to his short hair, legs wrapping around his waist.

"If I didn't know better, I'd say ya like me," Merle says smugly. I can smell whisky on his breath.

"Mm," I say evasively, kiss him again, "Maybe I do. Now lemme down so I can cook for y'all."

He does, but before he lets me go, he produces a rose from behind his back and tucks it behind my ear.

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Several Months Later

Grace

Just my fuckin' luck. I been usin' since I was seventeen and I only been busted once. Now makes twice. Today just ain't my fuckin' day.

I'm sittin' in the back of a cop car, one or two counties over from home, twiddlin' my fingers 'cause I'm still trippin', wonderin' whether they'll lock me up too, seein' as Merle is already doin' time for drug possession. If we could afford bail, he'd be home.

Ain't nobody – not even me and Daryl combined – got enough money for it.

"Look, miss, you could make this a helluva lot easier if you just gave me your name," the cop says.

I scowl. Fine.

"It's Grace," I say, "Grace Mackenney."

The cop pulls over into the station.

"C'mon," he leads me into the station where a handful of other cops are crowded round a desk, chowin' down on baked goods that, I'm assuming, was brought in by the chick standin' on the edge of the group.

She's real short, kinda scrawny, with long black hair with these lil streaks of blonde. Her hazel eyes survey me curiously. I eye the heavy silver cross around her neck. She don't seem to like it bein' there. Huh, from one of those types o' families.

"Hey, Sheriff?" the cop that dragged me in calls, "I'mma book this one."

I get dumped in a chair whilst the cop searches my name.

"Well shit, you're from the next county over," the cop scowls.

"Not your division?" I smirk.

The cop scowls then leads me back out, past the group of cops, pausin' only whilst I shriek at one of 'em, and then tells me to get back into the car.

I do as I'm told, pullin' a face at the rest of the bastards as we go.

"Saw your file," says the cop as we pull away from the station, "what's a lil thing like you doin' caught up with people – thugs - like Merle Dixon?"

I curse at him.

"None of your damn business, Officer Oink," I spit.

The cop, to my surprise, chuckles, and is silent until we're maybe a mile out of town.

"I'mma drop your ass on the main street. You tell Dixon that Rodgerson has paid his debt." The cop says.

I laugh.

"No fuckin' way," I grin, no wonder he didn't cuff me.

"Go on, git."

I scarper, making a note to tell Merle what the cop told me to when he eventually gets outta the clink.

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Ashlyn

It's a funny time to be at the Sheriff's office. My mother sent me with a big container of baked goods, leftovers from what she made for church. Forever being polite, submissive and dutiful. A traditional Southern lady.

That's how I was brought up to be, and whilst I figure I'm not bad at it, I wish I had some leeway to rebel every now and then.

Not likely.

Maybe that's why, when Officer Rodgerson brings in a strange girl, I gawk.

She's small, her bleach-blonde hair haphazardly tied up, eyes flashing, and very obviously high on something. She's cussing out the officer who brought her in, though, interestingly, she isn't cuffed.

Rodgerson re-emerges from one of the offices with the girl in tow a few moments later, announcing that she's from the next county over. They go to leave, the girl lookin' real frustrated, mumbling about wastes of time.

"One of that trash Dixon's dealers?" someone calls to Rodgerson. His response is drowned out by the girl's violent outburst of words I've never even heard before.

"Don't y'all talk shit 'bout him," the girl shouts, "fuckin' assholes!" she spits at the officer who commented, and Rodgerson shoves her through the door, back outside.

"Dixon?" I turn to Rick Grimes, who, not going to lie, I'm kinda sweet on, only to find him talking on his cell phone.

"Jackass drug dealer from a couple towns over," someone else – the same guy who spoke to the girl – informs me.

"Grimes ain't never dealt with him before," the same guy, Shane, adds.

"Just a drug dealer?" I ask curiously.

"Well, he runs a motorcycle gang too. Probably does other shit. He's in the slammer at the moment though. No wonder that chick was so mad."

"Why?" I ask, "Who is she?"

"Girlfriend, maybe? Maybe a cokewhore. It doesn't matter," Shane shrugs.

"Yeah it does," I say, forgetting my manners, "she's a person too."

I don't know why it bugs me, but it does.

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Grace

Dumbass, I think to myself as I kick the screen door open. Goes to show cops don't communicate with each other that much; else they'd know Rodgerson is more crooked than a bent javelin.

Daryl's sittin' on the couch, lookin' mighty pissed off. I soon see why – sitting in the armchair, lookin' mighty pleased with himself, is Merle.

I throw myself at him with a shriek, wrap my arms around him.

"Thought you were still in for a couple months?" I say.

"Naw, babe," Merle jerks a thumb at Daryl, "Lil brother here found bail."

I stare at Daryl.

"How the hell-?"

He shrugs.

"Sold my bike."

His bike wasn't as cool as Merle's but it was still pretty radical. Shame he sold it.

"Why?"

"I was tired of lookin' at your sorry ass every day," Daryl shrugs and slopes off to the kitchen in search of booze.

"Got arrested today," I tell Merle, not shiftin' from his lap.

"Ah fuck."

"'S ok," I say with a grin, "Rodgerson says he's paid his debt."

Merle laughs, "ah, that sorry bastard. Well, good."

I bury my face in his neck.

"I missed you," I confess. I can feel his laughter rumbling in his chest.

"You missed my cock, baby," he says.

I swat at him.

"Yeah," I say sarcastically, "just that. Totally."

He grins.

"Knew it."

"Dumbass," I retort; kiss him real slow, moan against his lips when his tongue slides into my mouth.

"Ay, other people live 'ere too," Daryl says, disgusted, floppin' down onto the couch. He is ignored.

Y'all probably think we carried on, like a merry bunch of drunken, drug-fuelled losers. And we did, for a while. Til it happened.

I ain't talkin' about kids or jail or anythin' else equally undesirable. I'm talkin' real bad. At first, we thought the newsreaders were pullin' tricks on us. Then we thought we'd gotten a bad batch of tabs. Turned out it was neither.

Somethin' was killin' people, then bringin' them back as… well… things. They were goin' around bitin' people, savagin' them to death, and then they come back as the things we started callin' walkers.

We – and by we, I mean Merle – wanted to stay home for as long as possible, but when our neighborhood started gettin' real bad, we tied the motorcycle to the bed of Daryl's truck, piled a bunch of supplies into bags, hopped in the cab, and jumped ship.

So we set out, Merle and Daryl and me, lookin' for shelter or a safe place. Atlanta, they said, had a refugee center.

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Ashlyn

I'm taking care of a couple of horses, hiding from the undead, considering 'borrowing' one, when I spy a familiar face. He looks like hell, but I sure recognize him. I almost drop the crowbar I'm holding.

"Rick? Rick Grimes?" I call out.

"Ashlyn?" he approaches me, "what's going on?"

"End of the world. Didn't you get the memo?" I say sarcastically.

Rick raises an eyebrow at me.

"Where you headed?"

"Atlanta," I say, "heard there was some survivors chilling out there. Oops, DUCK!"

He does, and I swing my crowbar at the walker that had been creeping up on him.

"Thanks," he gives me a half-grin, then says, "Say we make off with one of these horses…"

"Ain't that illegal?" I ask.

"Don't think that shit really matters anymore. D'you?" he grins at me.

I grin back.

"Lead the way, officer."

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Grace

We've found a group of survivors. Admittedly, they ain't exactly fond of us. They hesitantly seem to be acceptin' Daryl, maybe 'cause he brings back meat whenever he disappears into the woods for a couple days at a time. Merle and I, though… to be fair, he doesn't exactly help our case. He's rude, arrogant, and more than a lil racist to the African American portion of our group… actually, he's pretty fuckin' racist to the whole lot of 'em, anyone who ain't white gets a harsh insult directed at 'em.

Personally, I stay outta it, but whenever anyone starts talkin' shit about Merle – usually when he ain't around – I jump down their throats.

There's this real asshole, Ed, who beats on his wife (and probably their kid), talkin' smack one evenin'. I, as usual, fly off the handle at him.

"Hey, asshole," I go stompin' up to him, smack him in the face, "I can hear y'all talkin' shit. Might wanna quit it or next time I'll use a fuckin' rock."

He loses his shit, goes all red in the face.

"You lil bitch! I'll fuckin' kill you, fuckin' good for nothin' cunt!"

Outta nowhere, Merle jumps in front of me, cops the punch meant for me and throws one right back.

The fight is brutal, bloody, with both me and Ed's wife Carol shriekin' at them to cut it out. Merle manages to knock him down, spits in his face, and then lets me yank him back.

"Y'ever speak to my girl like that again, I'll put a bullet through ya fuckin' head." The threat is surprisingly quiet, which makes it worse. The threat lingerin', Merle lets me drag him off.

I mutter darkly under my breath as I clean up his wounds.

"Shoulda let me handle it," I say, "I got brass knuckles, y'know."

"Yeah? Ya really think I'd a let him touch ya?" Merle rolls his eyes, "that'll be tha fuckin' day."

He's gonna have a black eye, that's for sure. I kiss the bruise, ignoring his gruff mutter of "git'a fuck offa me."

Someone clears their throat. I turn, surprised to see the lil boy from the main group standin' there with a couple cans of somethin'.

"My mom said to bring you these."

"Thanks, lil dude," I take the cans – soup – and ruffle the kids hair.

It's my fault, what happened in the end.

"I like these people." I say as we sit in our tent.

"This bunch'a losers?" he doesn't bother lowering his voice.

"They ain't losers. Besides we need safety in numbers. Maybe we should try and gain their trust." I say softly, "try and have somethin' of a life here."

"Sure, then rob 'em and take off." He smirks.

"Merle!" I protest.

"What? Perfectly fuckin' plausible."

"Don't be an asshole."

"You like livin'?" he challenges.

"Yeah." I say.

"Then deal with it."

"There's a supply run goin' down tomorrow. How about we go?" I suggest.

"That shut you up?"

"Yeah."

"Fine. I guess we can go." He grabs my waist, "now shut up."

It's this conversation that leads to us bein' on a roof of a department store in Atlanta. Right now, everyone's yellin' because Merle decided to shoot some walkers from the roof. Eh. I thought it was a good idea at the time.

There's two new faces among the supply run team though; a cop, and – holy shit, it's the chick from the cop shop. She edges towards me as the argument escalates to violence.

"That the guy that cop was talkin' smack about?" she asks, referrin' to my past outburst.

I nod, glance at her crowbar, then silently pass her one of my spare guns.

"Thanks. Where'd you get it?"

"We kinda knocked off a gun shop." I grin. She looks vaguely shocked. There's a hint of

prim-and-properness about her, but I can tell by lookin' at her that she's seen a lil too

much shit already in this new world.

"I'm Ash, by the way," she says.

"Grace," I say, then, "E'scuse me one sec," and I leap in between the brawling men,

given that Merle's just pulled a gun on some poor fool.

"Hey," I say, "Enough."

"Outta the way, bitch." Merle's too pissed to deal with my shit right now, so I get outta

the way and let the guys work it out.

It's the cop who sarcastically calls himself 'Officer Friendly' that eventually breaks it up;

cuffs Merle to one of the pipes on the roof, confiscates his gun, and the small amount of

powder he had on him.

"Oi," I say just before the cop tosses it off the roof, "we need that shit!"

"Not anymore you don't," says the cop, Rick Grimes I think he called himself.

"Lemme 'splain to y'all," I snarl, "we don't sleep. That shit keeps us awake watchin'

over your sorry asses."

Rick shrugs.

"Not my problem, kid."

I scowl at him real mean-like.

"You wanna be cuffed to the roof too?" he asks.

"You don't got two pairs of cuffs," I say.

He shrugs.

"Sure we could find somethin' to restrain your scrawny white trash ass," T-Dog puts in.

"Shuddup man," I say, but I stay quiet.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Ashlyn

We're about to all leave, race down a shit load of stairs to pile into a van or something. T-

Dog is fumbling with the handcuff key, and then he drops it, sparking a whole heap of

yelling.

"Are you coming?" I call to the blonde girl – Grace – who is standing there almost in

shock.

She shakes her head.

"C'mon, Grace," T-Dog says, but she shakes her head again.

"Y'all go," she says, "I'm stayin' with Merle."

I consider protesting, but T-Dog drags me through the door before I can.

That's the last I see of her – of both of them.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Grace

I have a backpack full of supplies, so we don't get too desperate until the walkers start

crashin' against the door.

"We're gonna die up here," I say it flatly – hell, we accepted that shit a while back.

"Nah," he's actually panicking, "pass the that saw."

"What? You fuckin' crazy?!" I shriek at him.

"Just fuckin' do it, Gracie."

I hesitantly pass it to him.

"I need y'all to cover that door," Merle says, "and fer the luvva god, don't look."

Shuddering, I cock my rifle, slip the knuckledusters from the pocket of my jeans, and turn my back to him. I try not to wince when I hear the sound of metal on flesh – and bone – and the subsequent snarls of pain and vicious swearing that accompanies a haphazard self-amputation.

We manage to fight our way out, stopping only to find a heated lump of metal to cauterize the wound with. I still can't look at it. I just fight.

And then we run. And we don't stop.


End file.
